Home of the Wombat, mortal enemy of the Drop Bear

Waiting

Waiting to float away on the metallic tasting chemicals, and I wonder at the shape of life. There are no straight paths at my feet. Only gorse and toetoe stands and tiny little gaps to pass through.

The snoring beside me is regular, but it will be gone tomorrow. Everything is fleeting. What is solid in this chaotic world of mine? There are some good friendships building, but the universe and I conspire to end those all too often.

And what of death, the whispering companion who tried to take me along? He is still present somewhere in the background, ready to come forward again in his own time. I have much fear of that day, but when it comes I will probably welcome it again. My mind is sick enough to leave life at the slightest suggestion, but for now I continue.

I need patterns, routine, love, care. I get tiny tastes, but the hollowness remains.